The Highwayman
by WillSherJohnKhan
Summary: When Sherlock is disinherited, he turns to a life of crime to provide an income.
1. Highway Robbery

The wind was a torrent of darkness,  
Among the gusty trees,  
The moon was a ghostly galleon.  
Tossed upon cloudy seas,  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight,  
Over the purple moor,  
And the highwayman came riding –  
Riding – Riding –  
The highwayman came riding,  
Up to the old inn-door.

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON - APRIL 1750

He observed the coach as it approached, noting from the pace and speed of the horses that the animals were tired. The coachman had to gently flick the lead horse's ear with his whip to spur them on to increase their pace.

They were close to home, but it was dark and they were on a lonely stretch of road. That made them vulnerable.

When the coach had to slow down to navigate a bend in the road safely, Sherlock Holmes made his move.

He covered the lower half of his face with the handkerchief around his neck. Easing his horse forward he raised his pistol in readiness as he emerged from his hiding place behind a knot of trees on the side of the road.

The coachman who had been busy keeping control of his horses looked up in alarm when he heard the sound of pounding hooves galloping towards him.

He barely had time to register the lone masked figure bearing down on him before he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Sherlock indicated with the pistol that the coachman should get down from his box. As soon as the terrified mans feet touched the ground, Sherlock ordered him to "Drop your breeches." This the man did in great haste, and then without being told placed both hands behind his head.

Satisfied, Sherlock got down from his horse, walked over to the carriage and opened the door.

To become immediately mesmerised by a pair of big brown eyes, encased in a delicate face that was surrounded by chestnut coloured ringlets. All thought of demands for valuables fading away.

Lady-in-waiting Margaret Elizabeth Hooper gasped when the door to the coach was flung open. Though it was not because the person in question was a highwayman carrying a loaded pistol. Rather it was the man himself that left her breathless. The inside of the carriage was illuminated by a full moon, allowing her to see him clearly. He was tall, slim, with penetrating, intelligent eyes that watched her intently over the handkerchief he used to hide his other features. She was nonetheless able to make a quick inventory of all that she could see; short, curly black hair could be seen under the black tricorne he wore. Under his emerald green velvet jacket he wore a shirt made of Indian cotton. Margaret's cheeks became noticeably warm when she realised that the shirt was almost indecent, undone as it was so that it revealed a scattering of hair on his chest. His feet were shod in boots that came up to the thigh, all but covering the doeskin breeches dyed dark blue they were almost black.

"Aren't you going to demand that we 'stand and deliver'," snapped the other occupant of the coach.

Sherlock turned and under his handkerchief he smirked with delight, for sitting there was none other than Lady Smallwood.

He turned his pistol towards the older woman who simply glared at him.

He shook his head. "Tedious," he replied.

"Why?" Margaret asked before she could stop herself.

She could tell from Lady Smallwood's expression that she was going to be reprimanded later for her curious nature.

The highwayman turned to her, surprise evident in the lift of his eyebrow.

"Because my reason for being here is plainly obvious and so does not require the too oft' used standard by which other gentlemen of the road choose to employ."

He turned back to Lady Smallwood. "If you would be so kind?" he said as he pointed towards the small trunk at her feet that he knew would contain valuables.

When she initially refused to move he cocked his pistol so that it was ready to fire. Only then did Lady Smallwood reluctantly lean down to pick up the box.

But when she went to pass it to him he stopped her. And turned to Margaret, inclining his head towards the item in her mistresses hands. "I require you assistance," he said.

Margaret got up without a word. Taking the box she followed Sherlock out of the carriage, and over to his horse that had walked back over to the trees to graze at the fresh green grass that grew there.

When she handed him the trunk, he took it and strapped it securely to his horse.

As she turned to go back to the coach Sherlock waylaid her, placing his hand on her upper arm and pulling her back to him.

"I believe payment is due for your assistance," he said.

Margaret shivered as his deep voice washed over her. She wondered if he'd placed her under a spell.

She was certain of it when their gazes met. He whipped off the handkerchief, bent down and pressed his lips firmly to hers.

Margaret gasped with surprise, then moaned as his tongue invaded her mouth, taking possession of it. Instinct had her reaching up to grasp him around the neck. Pulling him down to her as her fingers sank into his rich, unruly curls.

When their lips parted they were both breathing heavily.

"Your name little one, I must have it," he gasped.

"Margaret," she replied unsteadily. "Margaret Elizabeth Hooper."

Sherlock brushed his thumb against her trembling lips. "To me you are Molly," he murmured. "My sweet little Molly."

He skimmed his fingers over her cheeks and down her pale throat until they reached the chair and the locket she wore.  
She froze when she felt him undoing the clasp. "No," she cried.

"Shhhush," he whispered. "I only wish it as a keepsake."

"But the locket is very dear to me."

"And so it shall be to me," Sherlock assured her before he glanced over towards the coach. "You had better return to your mistress. She will wonder what has become of you."

Placing the locket in the pocket of his jacket he mounted his horse and with a tip of his hat he rode away into the night.


	2. True Identity

The daylight moon looked quietly down  
Through the gathering dusk on London town.  
A smock-frocked yokel hobbled along  
By Newgate, humming a country song.  
Chewing a straw, he stood to stare  
At the proclamation posted there.  
'Three hundred guineas for Turpin's head,  
Trap him alive or shoot him dead;  
And a hundred more for his mate, Tom King.'  
He crouched like a tiger about to spring.  
Then he looked up, and he looked down;  
And chuckling low, like a country clown,  
Dick Turpin painfully hobbled away  
In quest of his Inn – The Load of Hey.

The Ballad of Dick Turpin by Alfred Noyes

THE CROWN INN – LONDON

In the privacy of a snug at the rear two well-dressed men were in the midst of a heated discussion.

Leaning back in his armchair, the Hon. Sherlock Holmes, resplendent in the blue and green brocaded collarless jacket with gold stitching, deep cuffs and matching waistcoat, ruffled shirt, brown coloured breeches, silk stockings and black buckled shoes. His unruly curls now tamed under a long-haired wig made from human hair and tied back at the nape of his neck with a black ribbon.

The style had only recently been introduced, and Sherlock always liked to be ahead of the crowd when it came to trying out the latest styles and fashions.

It was this latest acquisition that was the cause of their current disagreement. For to have the privilege to be ahead of the crowd, one must be prepared to pay for it, and to pay handsomely.

Which under normal circumstances wouldn't have been a problem. Sherlock was after all a peer of the realm.

Or at least he had been until his elder brother Mycroft, the recently anointed Lord Holmes hadn't decided to disinherit him.

"This has to stop Sherlock. The Constable isn't stupid." When Sherlock opened his mouth, his friend quickly stopped him. "No Sherlock he really isn't. He will work it out in the end."

"He wont," came the confident reply.

The good doctor seeing he was getting nowhere with his current argument tried a different tact to get his friend to see sense.

"Why can't you just do as Mycroft wants? It can't be that much of a hardship, surely?"

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "It is the responsibility of the head of the family to marry and produce heirs," he stated as if speaking to an imbecile. "But Mycroft has elected to forego that right and has instead instructed me that it is my cross to bare."

John shook his head. As a man happily married it was difficult for him to understand his young friends position on the marriage state. He knew that as a peer of the realm marriage was about duty and obligation rather than love.

'But love could, and did grow.'

"Don't speak to me of love," Sherlock snapped.

John looked surprised. "But I didn't…"

"You were thinking it, and that was just as bad."

"It can happen Sherlock, if you'd just let it." John argued.

"I have no wish to marry. No wish to be tied to one woman for eternity…"

And then an image of Molly's face came into his mind.

Sherlock shook his head trying to banish the memories of her sweet features, the taste of her lips, the way she clutched his hair in her hands…

"So because of pride you are willing to loose everything. Your inheritance, your reputation, your good name and quite possibly your life."

Snapped out of his wayward thoughts, Sherlock replied. "Then I will have to do my utmost best to ensure that I'm not caught."

Seeing John was not convinced Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then went on to explain. Leaning further back in his chair, his hands pressed together resting under his chin in a pose Dr. Watson had learned was his thinking or explaining position.

"As you know," he began. "Lestrade has become obsessed with capturing the highwayman."

"You," John clarified.

"Yes, obviously me. Do keep up Watson," Sherlock grumbled irritably.

Doctor Watson made no reply; he just inclined his head for his friend to continue.

"He's at his wits end, which is why he was so eager to accept my assistance when I offered it. As you are aware I have been of some use to him with my observations regarding the criminal classes."

John simply nodded.

"It was of course imperative that I not be caught and my identity discovered. So I have devised a regime of misdirection, whereby based on information given to me by the good constable I have directed him and his men to lay in wait for the highwayman on stretches of road that I would not be using at that time," Sherlock paused, a satisfied smile touching his lips, his eyes sparkling merrily. "So as you can see my dear Watson, I have ensured that the likelihood of my being caught has been considerably minimised."

But Watson was not in the least bit pleased. "My point exactly Sherlock," he cried. "The game you are playing is sheer folly. It is stupid, arrogant and dangerous in the extreme."

To say Sherlock was surprised by the outburst would be an understatement.

He leaned forward and attempted to calm his agitated companion. "Calm yourself doctor, all will be well. I calculate the possibility that Lestrade will catch me to be very low."

"But it could happen," Watson pointed out.

"It could," Holmes reluctantly agreed. "And that is incentive enough to ensure that I remain several steps ahead of him."

At that moment there was a commotion at the bar.

The innkeeper was arguing with someone who was trying to gain unauthorised access to the snug.

Sherlock's lips broke into a full grin as he recognised the voice of the man trying to gain entry. He called out, "Its all right innkeeper, you can let him in."

A moment later Constable Gregory Lestrade entered.

"I'm sorry to disturb you Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson," the older man said.

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired, though he knew only too well what had the constable so agitated.

Lestrade nodded. "He's struck again, the blackguard!"

"Who has he robbed this time?"

"Lady Smallwood," the constable replied.

Sherlock could see from the man's expression that he intended to say something more but was uncertain how.

"Something more Lestrade?" he pressed, intrigued.

Lestrade took a deep breath. "It would appear that robbery is no longer his only goal."

Holmes and Watson shared a confused look.

"What do you mean man? Explain?"

"In this particular case, he not only robbed Lady Smallwood, he also assaulted her Lady-in-waiting."


	3. Gentleman Rogue

"Kiss me, my bonny sweetheart,  
I'm after a prize tonight,  
But I shall be back with the  
Yellow gold before the morning light;  
Yet, if they press me sharply,  
And harry me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,  
Watch for me by moonlight,  
I'll come to thee by moonlight,  
Though hell shall bar the way."  
He rose upright in the stirrups;  
He scarce could reach her hand,  
But she loosened her hair i' the casement!  
His face burnt like a brand.  
As the black cascade of perfume  
Came tumbling over his breast,  
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight  
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)  
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight,  
And galloped away to the West.

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

EN ROUTE TO THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE

The Doctor's horse and gig tore up the road, dirt flying in all directions as he drove with haste to The Smallwood Estate.

"How many times do I have to tell you John," exclaimed Sherlock angrily. "I did not force myself upon the girl." Truth be told he was more than a little hurt that his friend was willing to even entertain the possibility that he would behave in such an abhorrent way towards an innocent young woman.

"Not in any way?"

When Sherlock didn't answer immediately, John pressed him in growing concern. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock finally responded, choosing his words with care. "I will admit I kissed her," he said. Then more to himself than his companion he continued quietly. "I just couldn't help myself, there was something about her…"

As they pulled up in front of Smallwood Manor Sherlock went back to his initial statement. "Did I attack her? Most definitely not!"

Watson let out a sigh of relief. He didn't really believe his friend capable of such a reckless act, but it was best to be certain. As they alighted from the gig he said. "I'll speak with the girl while you and Lestrade deal with Lady Smallwood."

Sherlock grimaced, but nodded his head as both men entered the house.

SMALLWOOD MANOR – DRAWING ROOM

Sherlock was shown into the drawing room. He found Lestrade already there, completely out of his depth in his attempts to question the indomitable Lady Smallwood. It soon became all too clear that it was the poor dumb-founded constable that was being subjected to interrogation.

"What are you going to do about it Constable?" she demanded. "When do you intend to have the criminal in custody?"

"I am doing all I can to discover him Ma'am," Lestrade finally managed to get in. "But I'm afraid the chances of getting your valuables returned…"

"My concern," Lady Smallwood interrupted, "is for my lady-in-waiting and what she has been forced to endure."

"But Lady Smallwood," the constable rather bravely pointed out. "The lady herself claims that she came to no harm. That being the case, our primary concern must be…"

"She does not know her own mind at the moment Constable. She was assaulted I tell you. I could tell immediately, no matter what she may say."

"Perhaps Lady Smallwood," Sherlock interjected smoothly. "It would be best to remain focussed on the capture of the individual for the time being. Once he is in custody, then it can be determined what he will be charged with."

"He'll swing either way," Lestrade stated confidently.

"Quite," Sherlock agreed, carefully schooling his features to disguise and conceal the uncomfortable expression that flitted briefly across his face.

Lady Smallwood turned to Sherlock, momentarily distracted from her line of enquiry.

"So it is true what Lord Holmes says?"

"And how is that ma'am?" Sherlock enquired, stiffening slightly at the mention of his brother.

"He said that you have taken it upon yourself to assist the constable with law enforcement. A curious choice I must say for a man in your privileged position."

"I assure you Lady Smallwood I only offer the constable my observations. It is he that does all the actual law enforcing."

At that moment Doctor Watson was shown into the drawing room, coming up behind him, Lady Smallwood's lady-in-waiting. Sherlock was relieved to be saved from further cross-examination. He could now spend his time in observing the far more pleasing prospect in the form of one Molly Hooper.

In the presence of her mistress she showed none of the spirit that he knew beat within her breast.

Upon entering the room she had kept her gaze lowered, only daring to briefly raise her eyes to establish the company within.

Though part of him was outraged to see her so cowered, another part was relieved. Although Sherlock was confident that she would not recognise him in his true form, there was no getting away from that illusive quality known as female intuition.

THE ROAD TO LONDON

When the horse and gig passed out the gates of The Smallwood Estate and was back on the road to London, Sherlock could no longer contain his curiosity.

"Well," he demanded. What did she say? What account did she give?"

Watson observed his friend in growing amusement. Whether Sherlock realised it or not, he was acting like a hopeful suitor. Though he knew that if he were to call him up on it Sherlock would simply claim that his only concern was to confirm that his conduct with the young lady-in-waiting had not been viewed as dishonourable. When in fact his concern was clearly more to do with the impression he had left on the lady herself rather than the accusations levelled by her mistress.

John kept him in suspense as long as he dared before finally giving him the answer he was impatiently waiting to hear.

"She confirmed that she had come to no harm at the hands of the highwayman."

Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding.

"She even admitted that she had not given Lady Smallwood a full account of her interaction with the highwayman. And this she fears has led her mistress to making claims that are completely false."

As a satisfied smile played upon Sherlock's lips, John couldn't help adding. "You are smitten with her, aren't you?"

The smiled instantly vanished to be replaced by a scowl that remained for the rest of the journey back. His companion by contrast was all smiles.

For at last Dr. Watson had proof that the impregnable wall of ice that surrounded Sherlock's heart was starting to melt, and sentiment in the form of Molly Hooper was beginning to worm her way in.

THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE – TWO WEEKS LATER

Molly was wandering the grounds of the estate near the old stables on a rare afternoon free of duties.

The last few weeks had left her feeling quite weary. Ever since the incident with the highwayman Lady Smallwood had been even more of a dragon than was usual.

It wasn't for the loss of her valuables that was the cause of her mistresses increased outbursts. But rather her fixation on exactly what had transpired between the highwayman and Molly. She was becoming consumed by it, constantly questioning her morning, noon and night about it. She was thankful that Lady Smallwood was currently unaware of what the highwayman had taken from her.

As Molly walked in the sun, making her way towards the stables and the quiet and coolness they offered. Once inside she found a bail of hay to sit upon where she contemplated her employer, and how she had come to be in her service.

Though you wouldn't know to look at them, Molly and Lady Smallwood were related. Distantly related it is true, but related nevertheless.

Molly was the only child of the union between Lady Smallwood's nephew, Charles Hooper and his wife Edith. Charles in turn was the only child of Lady Smallwood's younger sister, Margaret who had become estranged from her family because she chose to marry for love rather than position. James Hooper was from a middle class background and worked as an accountant. When the family attempted to separate the couple, Margaret and James fled and headed off to parts unknown.

It grieved Lady Smallwood to lose her sister in such a scandalous way. She often thought of her, and wondered what had become of her.

Just over thirty years later she received a letter out of the blue from a young man claiming to be her dear sister's son.

It was just as well for Charles that he was able to substantiate his claim and to offer proof that he was indeed who he claimed to be. For by this time Lady Smallwood was not as trusting as she had once been. Circumstances in her own life had hardened her.

Her marriage had not been a happy one. Her late husband had managed to gamble and drink his own fortune away. If she had not been so determined to keep control of her own, that too would have gone the same way. She was childless, having suffered a number of miscarriages.

It was in part due to this that saw her inviting her nephew, his wife and their young daughter to come and pay a visit to The Smallwood Estate.

But tragedy was to strike. On the way to see Lady Smallwood the stagecoach they were travelling in was involved in an accident. And so it was that the child Margaret Elizabeth, named after her grandmother and her great aunt was left orphaned.

Lady Smallwood installed the ten-year-old in her household, where she was immediately groomed for the position that she now held, that of Lady Smallwood's lady-in-waiting.

THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE – OLD STABLES

Molly came out of her reverie, alerted by the sound of someone leading a horse into the stables.

As the estate's horses were now housed in the new stables, her curiosity was piqued as to who it could possibly be.

So she got up and went to investigate.

Sherlock eased himself down to the floor, grimacing in pain as he used his left arm to steady himself.

Quickly he stripped himself to the waist in order to get a better look at the wound. He was relieved to note that it wasn't as bad as he'd feared even though it hurt like the devil.

A shocked gasp took him by surprise, and he turned to be rewarded with the pleasurable sight of a wide-eyed, cheek-flushed Molly Hooper, who clearly couldn't decide where she should allow her gaze to rest.

Sherlock's eyes sparkled and his lips twitched with amusement, he decided his day that had not started out well looked like it was going to get better, a lot better.

"Molly, Molly, Molly," he purred low, enjoying the reactive shiver that ran through her small frame. "Whatever brings you here, so far from the safety of the manor house?"

Molly opened her mouth to reply but no words came out. She was struck dumb by the vision before her. The highwayman was the first grown man she had observed unclothed, and even knowing it was quite unbecoming of a young woman in her position to do so, she couldn't keep her eyes from straying from his face and down his body.

He was slim, but with well-defined muscles, a sprinkle of hair covered his chest. His shoulders were reasonably broad and he had a long, elegant neck that she was surprised to note was adorned with the locket he had taken from her. It was only as her eyes travelled down his arms that she became aware of blood seeping from a wound between his elbow and shoulder.

"You've been wounded," she noted with concern.

"Obviously," Sherlock responded, wincing slightly as he ran his hand over the wound.

Molly immediately knelt beside him and gently inspected the wound. "It doesn't appear to be too deep," she said.

"I will be eternally forever grateful that the coachman that attempted to shoot me was such a poor shot."

Molly frowned at the man before her. "I don't think you should take it so lightly. You were lucky this time, but what about the next?"

Whatever flippant reply he intended to use died when he saw the genuine concern in her eyes. Doctor Watson had said something similar, but for reasons he didn't wish to contemplate Molly's words drove a dagger in the heart he always claimed he didn't possess.

So rather than dealing with these uncomfortable feelings he chose to deflect their conversation in a different direction.

Molly was in the process of starting to clean the wound as best she could with the highwayman's own handkerchief that she had found in the pile of his discarded clothes when the highwayman spoke.

"I'm surprised your mistress doesn't keep you confined to your bedchamber under lock and key after our little discussion the other day."

She paused and looked him directly in the eye. "Lady Smallwood has been very good to me," she stated firmly, feeling the need to defend her mistress. "She took me in when she could have just as easily turned her back on me."

"I'm sure she did," Sherlock responded, completely unconvinced.

Offended by his words and their implications Molly quickly got to her feet and was on the verge of leaving when the highwayman spoke again.

"I am sorry Molly Hooper," he said quietly. "Forgive me."

She turned just as he'd managed to struggle to his feet. She looked deep into his eyes, and saw that he looked genuinely contrite for the pain his words had caused her.

He walked up to her, took her face in both his hands, leant down and placed a gentle kiss upon her lips, then his tongue brushed against her lower lip, requesting access. A request she willingly allowed. As soon as his tongue entered her mouth it triggered a scorching passion that immediately engulfed them both.

Sherlock's long, dexterous fingers made quick work undoing the fastening to her gown, before removing it and the petticoats underneath.

He then laid them atop some straw and hay making a soft bed upon which they could lay.

Returning to Molly, he took her in his arms and she gave a shiver of pleasure as she felt the heat radiating off his chest through the thin material of her chemise. Taking her face in his hands he again kissed her, their lips now blending with increasing urgency.

With slow deliberation Sherlock removed her chemise and then her corset, boldly drinking in his fill of her creamy flesh as it was revealed.

Molly knew she shouldn't allow this man, this highwayman such free and easy access to her body. But she felt no shame standing there half naked in front of him. It felt right. And wrong though it may be she decided that for once in her life she would follow her heart not her head, consequences be damned.

Any further thoughts were driven from her mind when he lowered his head to her heaving breasts. His lips, tongue and teeth latching on to a flushed pink nipple, moaning as he drew it fully into his mouth to begin suckling on it as eagerly as a hungry newborn.

Molly closed her eyes at the ecstasy caused by the vibrations from his moan, throwing her head back, a whimper escaping her lips at the unbridled pleasure that rippled through her.

Her arms came up to rest on his shoulders before she moved her hands to his head and tunnelled her fingers into her lover's unruly curls.

Sherlock released her breast and began kissing his way down until he reached her pantaloons. His hands came to rest on the garment, his fingers making their way inside as he loosened them and then aided their descent to the floor, her boots and stockings soon followed.

Molly gave a startled gasp when she felt his fingers seeking entrance at the apex of her thighs.

"Let me," he whispered.

She looked into his eyes, the most entrancing she had ever seen, they constantly changed from blue to green and back again.

Taking a deep breath she shyly nodded her ascent, widening the stance of her legs allowing him easier access.

Sherlock let out the breath he'd been holding, uncertain that she would allow an act that was in public at least was seen as vulgar. Molly Hooper was proving to be a most remarkable woman.

He pulled back her womanly folds before slipping a finger deep inside her, quickly followed by a second. He began to circle and tease the sensitive nub, feeling moisture gathering as he increased the pace, his fingers pumping as he slid them in and out.

Molly's breathing increased as she felt she was spinning towards she knew not what. All she knew for certain was that she would likely go to Hell for enjoying such a sinful act. But she didn't care.

But before she could find release Sherlock removed his fingers, showing her the glistening moisture, he kept eye contact as he placed his fingers in his mouth and proceeded to lick them clean.

The dazed expression on her face caused an intense reaction in Sherlock, desperately he fumbled at the flap of his breaches, before shoving them and his boots off.

Molly could not take her eyes off his completely naked form. Her gaze remained fixed on his engorged shaft. It was long, thick and hard with a drop of moisture coming out the end. She knew she should be horrified or at the very least embarrassed at seeing this part of his anatomy. But as with everything about him she didn't. She was fascinated, and she had to admit a little nervous, especially when he suddenly lifted her and laid her down on the makeshift bed he had made, before coming to lay between her legs.

Sensing her unease Sherlock rested his forehead against hers and looked deeply into her wide, brown eyes.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

Almost immediately she nodded

Unable to wait any longer to possess her fully Sherlock lowered his hips between her thighs, his hard body caressing the softness of hers as he took his shaft in hand, guiding it to her moist, slick centre before he plunged himself into her.

Molly gave a muffled cry as her maiden barrier gave way. Despite her discomfort her body reacted by clamping around his shaft like a vice. With all the willpower he could muster Sherlock slowed his thrusts as he whispered softly. "The pain will ease love, I promise."

He then slowly embedded himself to the hilt and then just as slowly withdrew. His eyes fixed on her face he asked, "Does it still hurt little one?"

Molly was surprised to realise that the stinging pain had already receded, and was instead replaced by a much more pleasurable sensation that originated from the point where they were so intimately joined.

Her response came in the lift of her hips. They began to move in an increasingly urgent rhythm over which she had no control.

That was all the answer Sherlock needed, his hips began pumping wildly. They slammed into her tight channel again and again, faster and faster. His breathing became ragged as a sheen of sweat anointed his skin.

Feeling his body starting to shake, he gasped out, "Tell me… how it feels?"

"Good, so good," she moaned just as her body stiffened and she was racked by the most intense sensations that shuddered through her.

Molly's release triggered Sherlock's. He arched his rigid body up against hers, roaring in triumph as he spilled his seed inside her before collapsing against her. His last coherent thought she was his, only his.

Entwined, their muscles drained of strength, and their passion spent Sherlock and Molly closed weary eyes and slept.


	4. Inevitable Consequences

They wrestled and heaved, five men to one;  
And a yokel entered the yard alone;  
A smock-frocked yokel, hobbling slow;  
But a fight is physic, as all men know,  
His age dropped off. He stood upright.  
He leapt like a tiger into the fight.  
Hand to hand, they fought in the dark;  
For none could fire at a twisting mark,  
Where he that shot at a foe might send  
His pistol-ball through the skull of a friend.  
But "Shoot Dick, shoot!" gasped out Tom King.  
"Shoot, or damn it, we both shall swing!  
Shoot and chance it!" Dick leapt back.  
He drew. He fired. At the pistol's crack.  
The wrestlers whirled. They scattered apart.  
And the bullet drilled through Tom King's heart.

The Ballad of Dick Turpin by Alfred Noyes

THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE – OLD STABLES

Sherlock awoke to the delightful sight of a sleepy doe-eyed Molly snuggled securely against him as she gently ran her fingers over his chest.

Sensing he was awake she lifted her head from where it had rested on his shoulder and smiled at him as she reached up to kiss him sweetly on the lips.

"So my love, do you by chance have a name?" she asked.

"William," he responded. He knew Molly hadn't recognised him as the man who had accompanied Lestrade to visit her mistress, but Sherlock was an unusual name, so he gave her his true Christian name instead.

"William…" she murmured as she settled back down at his side, laying her head once again upon his shoulder. "A pleasure to meet you," she continued before slipping back into a blissful sleep.

Sherlock looked down at her. She was so trusting. The triumph he had felt earlier was now replaced by guilt. He had only meant to tease her, not bed her.

And yet his baser self wanted nothing more than to howl in the knowledge that it was his body that had taught hers the ecstasy involved with such carnal pleasures.

He was certain that John Watson would have his head for what he had done. He didn't need to see his friends disapproving look to know that what he had done was a bit not good.

This prick of conscience caused Sherlock to regretfully disengage himself from the warmth and delight of Molly's body.

But he could not resist leaning over to press his lips and his body against hers one more time before getting to his feet, collecting his clothes and getting dressed.

He paused when Molly sat up, raising her legs up against her breasts and wrapping her arms around her legs in an attempt at modesty.

Her eyes were downcast and her teeth worried her lower lip.

"I have to go," he explained gently. "If I were to be discovered here…"

"I know," she replied finally meeting his gaze she sighed. "I just wish…"

At that moment they both became aware of someone calling out in the distance.

"Miss Margaret, where are you?"

Molly recognised the voice immediately. She got up and hurriedly began getting dressed. "It's Anderson," she exclaimed. "Lady Smallwood's coachman."

Sherlock made his way to the stable door and looked out. "He's still a fair distance away," he observed, attempting to reassure her.

"Yes, but he will eventually work out where I am. So you must go now. And quickly."

Sherlock hesitated a moment, turning back to Molly, blowing her a kiss before slipping out of the stable, making sure to head in the opposite direction to Anderson.

Molly had just finished dressing when she spotted the bloodied handkerchief, the same one he had worn when they first met, on the floor. She snatched it up and stuffed it under her chemise just as Anderson appeared at the stable door.

"There you are Miss Margaret. Lady Smallwood has need of you."

"Of course," Molly responded following the coachman out of the stables and back to the house.

THE HOME OF DR. JOHN WATSON

Sherlock winced as John poured alcohol over the wound on his arm.

If he thought he was going to escape a telling off however, he was to be out of luck.

"Why the hell didn't you come to me sooner," John demanded as he covered the wound with a cloth bandage. "You're extremely lucky that it wasn't infected."

"I was more pleasantly engaged," Sherlock replied.

It took John a moment or two to comprehend to what his friend was referring. When he thought he'd figured it out he looked at Sherlock with surprise. "I never realised you frequented bawdy houses?"

Sherlock's contented expression was quickly replaced by one of outrage and annoyance. "I wasn't with a prostitute," he snapped. "I was with…"

The good doctor had known Sherlock long enough to know that he wasn't the type of man who censored himself easily.

So his unwillingness to be forthcoming was most unusual to say the least. What was so important about the woman he had been with that he was unwilling to name her?

A possibility then dawned on him. "You were with Lady Smallwood's lady-in-waiting weren't you?"

Sherlock refused to respond.

"My God Sherlock! Have you no consideration for her reputation? For the possible danger you have placed her in?"

"What danger?" Sherlock demanded angrily, getting up to pace around the room. "You yourself noted she doesn't know the identity of the highwayman."

John looked at his friend incredulously. "This isn't about you, Sherlock. If she were to be even suspected of having knowingly associated with the highwayman, she could lose her position. Or worse."

Sherlock paused in his pacing. Had he unwittingly placed Molly in harms way? He was satisfied that no one had seen them together. When he had left her he had made sure that he had remained out of sight of the coachman. "No-one saw us together John. And I know Molly would not speak of our…liaison," he stated confidently.

"Well let us hope that is indeed the case," John responded, though it was clear he wasn't entirely convinced.

THE CROWN INN – LATE JUNE 1750

"Calm yourself, Lestrade," Sherlock said to the agitated constable, who was currently striding up and down in the confined space of the snug Sherlock preferred to use.

Lestrade did his best to get himself under control before continuing.

"My apologies Mister Holmes. I do appreciate all of the advice you have given me on how I might best apprehend this scoundrel. But he forever slips through my fingers."

Sherlock indicated to the innkeeper to get the constable ale, which he gratefully accepted.

"I agree that this highwayman is proving most illusive," Sherlock stated in a serious tone. "But you must not become disheartened. He is bound to slip up eventually, and when he does I'm certain that he will be the making of your career," he added encouragingly.

Lestrade gulped down the rest of his ale. "Aye," he agreed as he made to leave. "Or else he'll be the end of it."

Sherlock watched him leave, and felt a twinge of pity for him. Lestrade was a good man and did his very best to keep law and order as best he understood it.

He could not of course allow the constable to catch the highwayman. It was however becoming quite clear to him that he was going to have to retire the highwayman in the not too distant future.

The question then became what else could he do to keep himself in funds, and to relieve him of the boredom others in his class exalted in.

This was going to require some serious thought. He sat back in his chair, his hands pressed together and placed under his chin with his eyes closed in concentration.

THE SMALLWOOD ESTATE

Molly didn't know what was the matter with her. She had not been feeling well of late. Every morning she found it impossible to hold her breakfast down.

Added to this she seemed to be gaining in weight, which was at odds with the amount of food she was currently able to hold down.

She was also finding herself feeling more fatigued than usual. Though in fairness she could easily put this down to her mistresses demanding nature that over recent weeks had become even more so.

Molly looked forward to the time when she could retire to her bedchamber for the night. In the privacy of her room she could allow her thoughts to turn to William. She hoped that he was safe and well. She tried not to think too much on why she had not seen him since their time together in the barn.

She knew that if he were dead she would surely have heard of it. Constable Lestrade was using all the manpower that he could in his attempts to capture him. Lady Smallwood had said that he had even gained the assistance of Lord Holmes' younger brother, Sherlock.

She had a vague recollection of seeing him when he had come in the company of the constable and his friend, Doctor Watson to see Lady Smallwood

There was of course another reason why he may not come to see her. Molly was a practical young woman, she realised that although her William was everything to her. He in return may only view her as one of many. But she kept faith that he was a man of his word, when it came to his feelings. It was true he had not made a declaration, but she felt certain that what they had shared had been something very special.

Molly sighed as she closed the bedroom door behind her. She reached inside her chemise for William's handkerchief… to find it wasn't there.

'Oh no!' she thought. 'Where had it gone?'

"Is this what you are looking for?"

Molly whirled around and let out a gasp. Sitting on her bed was her mistress. And in Lady Smallwood's hand was the handkerchief.

"My Lady," she began tentatively.

"How long have you been in league with the highwayman?" Lady Smallwood demanded. But she didn't wait to give Molly time to explain herself. "I took you in, fed you, clothed you, gave you a roof over your head, and even had you trained to be my companion. And this is how you repay me."

Lady Smallwood got to her feet and walked over to Molly to tower over her.

"Traitor! Slut! Whore!" she bellowed at the top of her voice, determined for the whole household to hear.

"No. My Lady, please," Molly cried.

But Lady Smallwood wasn't interested in listening to her pleas. She threw the handkerchief at Molly before opening the bedroom door and called out. "Anderson!"

When the coachman dutifully appeared, Lady Smallwood ordered him to deal with her unfaithful lady-in-waiting. "Take her out of my sight and deposit her somewhere better suited to the harlot she is."

When Anderson looked a little confused, his mistress clarified her order. "Take her to one of London's houses of disrepute. I'm certain they'll have plenty of work for her."

Anderson may not have been a particularly bright person, but he wasn't cruel. Nonetheless with little choice he reluctantly led a tearful Molly away.

THE WHIP HAND BROTHEL

Anderson dropped Molly off at the door before turning his horse and gig around without a backward glance.

With no other option left to her, Molly walked up to the door and knocked.

The door was immediately opened. Standing before Molly was the most extremely striking-looking woman she had ever seen. She was the Madam of The Whip Hand, Irene Adler.

Irene briefly looked Molly up and down, quickly making her decision. "I am not a charity and I definitely don't have time to deal with waifs and strays." And with that she stepped back and slammed the door shut.

Molly's legs gave way under her, when she landed on the cold, hard pavement she burst into tears. How she wished that William would suddenly appear to sweep her up in his arms and take her away from all this.

But he didn't come.

She was completely on her own.


	5. A Good Tongue Lashing

He turned; he spurred to the westward;  
He did not know who stood  
Bowed with her head o'er the musket,  
Drenched with her own blood!  
Not till the dawn he heard it,  
And slowly blanched to hear  
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
Had watched for her love in the moonlight,  
And died in the darkness there.  
Back, he spurred like a madman,  
Shrieking a curse to the sky,  
With the white road smoking behind him  
And his rapier brandished high!  
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon;  
Wine red was his velvet coat;  
When they shot him down on the highway,  
Down like a dog on the highway,  
And he lay in his blood on the highway,  
With a bunch of lace at his throat.

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

THE WHIP HAND BROTHEL

Irene Adler was not a cold-hearted person. Cool was a better description. It was not by choice that she was this way. Life had made her so.

But hearing Molly's genuine distress melted a little of the ice that surrounded her heart.

When Molly heard the door open she scrambled to her feet. Quite where she was intending to go she couldn't say. But having suffered the harsh words from two completely different but nonetheless strong and determined women within the last hour, she wasn't up for another verbal attack.

But just as she turned to flee she found herself restrained. Turning she saw that it was the brothel madam who held her.

Irene indicated for Molly to enter her establishment. "You look done in," she noted. "Come inside. I'll arrange for you to get something to eat. And then you can tell me the circumstances that have brought you here."

Molly almost collapsed again, this time with relief. But Irene was stronger than she looked, easily holding Molly up as she led her indoors.

"And then she called me a whore and had me thrown out," Molly concluded her tale.

"Men!" Irene snorted angrily. "They're all the same. Leading a girl on and then leaving her to a cruel fate."

It was because of this characteristic that had led Irene to ensure that it was she who was always the one to be in the position of dominance and control in her relationships and sexual encounters.

"Oh no," Molly cried. "My William is nothing like that."

"Then where is he Molly? Why has he not returned after taking what he wanted from you?"

Molly bowed her head, were these not questions she'd asked herself many times over. But she loved William, even if she had been just as guilty of not mentioning it. And of course there was another explanation, one little fact about him that she had not yet informed Irene about. She did so now. "He's a highwayman."

It took a lot to surprise Irene Adler, and this statement most definitely did, a lady-in-waiting associating with a highwayman. She looked at Molly in amazement. "You mean the highwayman everyone has been talking about? The one that now has a reward on his head."

Molly nodded her head. But the movement caused more tears to fall.

In an attempt to calm her down Irene asked. "Tell me more about your William. What drew you to him?"

"Everything," Molly sighed. "The timber of his voice that always sends shivers through my body. Those unruly black curls, the high cheekbones, his lips and those incredible eyes."

This final detail caught Irene's attention. "What about his eyes?"

"The way they change colour, they could be blue or green, or a mixture of both depending on the light."

At that moment Molly yawned. It was now quite late, and it had been a harrowing day. The events were finally catching up with her, leaving her physically and emotionally exhausted.

"Come," Irene said kindly. "Let's find you a bed. A good nights sleep is what you need right now."

She led Molly to her personal wing of the brothel and brought her to a room where she could spend the night. "You'll be safe here, no one will disturb you."

Molly gave a small smile of thanks, entering the room and closing the door behind her.

In her own bedchamber Irene sat and pondered all that she had heard. There was much that needed to be done.

First she had to find Molly accommodation where she would be safe. And then she needed to visit with a certain gentleman and have a word with him.

THE PRINCE OF WALES INN

The Prince of Wales had lost much of the grandeur that it had once been known for in years gone by. But in recent times it had gained a reputation as being a temporary refuge for any young women who had got themselves in trouble, or who were down on their luck.

Irene felt confident that this was the best place for Molly.

She paid for Molly's accommodation herself and gave Molly some money to make any necessary purchases.

Satisfied that she would be safe and well cared for, Irene left intent on her second errand. If things didn't work out well, she would consider a more long-term solution for Molly.

But something told her it wouldn't be necessary.

221B BAKER STREET

When Irene Adler stormed up the stairs and into the flat he rented from the widow Mrs Hudson, it was fair to say that surprised was an understatement for how Sherlock felt.

But he managed to quickly recover himself.

"What are you doing here woman?" he demanded.

Irene's response was to slap him hard on the face, first the right cheek, then the left cheek and then the right again.

"You bastard!" she snarled, with the ferocity of a mother cat protecting its young. "I thought I'd taught you better about how to treat a young woman."

IRENE'S TEACHES SHERLOCK A LESSON

The Virgin. That was what the other young men his age called him. They constantly ridiculed him about his lack of experience.

He knew that there was a fair to reasonable chance that many of them exaggerated their number of conquests. Nonetheless he had come to a point where he no longer wished to be the only one not playing the field. He wanted to know what is he was missing out on.

Decision made, he set about ridding himself of his virginity.

The easiest solution was to pay for the services of a prostitute. This he did. Her name was Irene Adler.

As soon as the young man approached her, Irene could read him quite well. She could tell that he was quiet and reserved. But he was also arrogant, almost all young men born into wealth and privilege were. She had had more than her fair share of dealing with their type, who saw themselves so superior and above everyone else.

She was determined that this time things would be different. She was the one that was going to be in control, and she was going to teach him a thing or two, whether he wanted to or not, about the correct way to treat your sexual partner.

Decision made, she sauntered up to the young man. "What's your name, me darlin'?" she asked playfully.

"Sherlock."

"What kind of name is Sherlock?"

"It's 'my' name!" came the haughty reply.

Irene raised an enquiring eyebrow she knew a lie when she heard one. She looked him right in the eye.

Sherlock was immediately unnerved by this unexpected display of confidence. He had not expected that of the young woman when he had approached her. He suddenly found himself blushing at the way she appeared to see right through him.

Irene waited patiently.

Eventually he muttered under his breath. "My full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes," and then he added petulantly "But I prefer to be called Sherlock."

Irene grinned triumphantly. "That wasn't too difficult was it? A pleasure to meet you, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. Now that that was over they could get down to business.

This she eventually did, but not before instructing him that sex was not just about the man's pleasure, he should always consider the woman's and that he should treat them, no matter their class or station in life with the utmost respect – always.

221B BAKER STREET

"I'm sorry, to what do you refer?" Sherlock enquired politely.

"Not what Sherlock, who," Irene responded angrily.

Sherlock's expression remained blank.

"Margaret Elizabeth Hooper, former lady-in-waiting to Lady Smallwood."

Sherlock's pale features turned grey. "Molly," he whispered, his steely demeanour evaporating to be replaced instantly with one of concern. "Where is she? Is she hurt? I need to go to her."

Irene's features finally relaxed as she watched Sherlock. It was clear to see that he really did care for the girl, and for that she was grateful. Finally someone had found a way to break through the walls he had built up around his heart.

There was hope for him yet.

She gave him the details of where Molly was currently lodging. As she made to take her leave, she gave one final instruction. "Fix this Sherlock. For your sake and hers."

THE PRINCE OF WALES INN

Molly had promised Irene that she would stay at the inn until she came back with news.

But since last night, all Molly could think of was William.

With a price now on his head, his life was now in even greater danger. She became quite agitated just thinking about it.

She needed to find him. To try and convince him find another way to earn, a legal means of earning an income.

Without giving herself time to think of the folly of her decision, given she didn't even know his last name and had no idea where he lived. Molly left the safety of the inn and headed out into the dangerous streets of London.


	6. To the Rescue

Till now, at dawn, the towers of York  
Rose on the reddening sky,  
And Bess went down between his knees,  
Like a breaking wave, to die.  
He lay beside her in the ditch.  
He kissed her lovely head;  
And a Shadow passed him like the wind.  
And left him with his dead.  
He saw, but not as one that wakes,  
The City that he sought;  
He had escaped from London town,  
But not from his own thought.  
He strode up to the Mickle-gate  
With none to say him nay:  
And there he met his Other Self,  
In the stranger light of day.  
He strode up to the dreadful Thing  
That in the gateway stood;  
And it stretched it out a ghostly hand  
That the dawn had stained with blood.  
It stood, as in the gates of hell,  
With none to hear or see.  
"Welcome!" it said, "Thou'st ridden well;  
and outstrip all but me."

The Ballad of Dick Turpin by Alfred Noyes

221B BAKER STREET

After Irene departed, Sherlock was about to follow when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.

He couldn't go out dressed as he was, Molly wouldn't recognise him. She would only see the man who had visited her mistress in the company of the constable and Doctor Watson. Even if he were to remove his wig and set his unruly curls free, may course Molly to feel even more suspicious about his motives in trying to convince her that such a gentleman was her William.

That left only one option, to assume the garb of the highwayman. There was of course an element of danger in doing so, but Sherlock was reasonably confident that in the hustle and bustle of the London streets during the hours of daylight that he would be able to get around unnoticed.

Also he would be going into that part of London those that he robbed only frequented under the cover of darkness in a vain attempt to preserve their reputations.

Satisfied with his plan he changed his clothes and headed out of his flat.

THE PRINCE OF WALES INN

"What do you mean she's gone?" Sherlock demanded. "Gone where?"

"I don't rightly know," the innkeeper replied. "She didn't say."

As Sherlock turned to go, the innkeeper added. "She did mention needing to find her dear William."

Sherlock felt like a dagger had gone straight through his heart. His thoughts now became frantic. Molly didn't know who 'William' truly was. He'd given her no information whatsoever, not a last name, an address, nothing. It had all been a game to him, a distraction, a pleasant way to occupy his time. He was a fool, a damn bloody fool! And his foolishness had caused his love, for that was what he finally realised she was, to wander the dangerous streets of London in search of him.

He had to find her.

John Watson had just finished visiting a patient. Instead of heading back to his surgery, he had arranged to meet up with his wife, Mary so that they could go for a stroll together.

They were just passing The Prince of Wales Inn when they almost collided with a man who was leaving the establishment in somewhat of a hurry.

To the doctor's surprise he recognised the man. "Sherlock."

"Oh, hello John, Mary." Sherlock replied, somewhat distractedly.

"Where are you off to in such a rush?" And then John realised how Sherlock was dressed. "Are you insane?" he hissed. "What if someone recognises you?"

Sherlock immediately dismissed his friends concerns. "Why would anyone recognise me? No-one expects to see the highwayman at this time of day."

He tried to walk past John, but John blocked his path.

In a low voice he said. "You do know there's now a reward on your head? It wont be just Lestrade you have to worry about. Every idiot with a pistol will be on a lookout for the highwayman in the hope of claiming the reward."

Sherlock was becoming desperate to begin his search for Molly. He didn't have time for this. She was his only concern. "What does that matter?" he cried. "I am nothing without Molly. Now if you'll excuse me I need to find her."

With that he stepped around his friend and headed down the street.

John watched him go, muttering under his breath. "You'll be no good to her dead." Turning to Mary he said. "I need you to do some things for me…"

Husband and wife parted company. She to complete the requested errands, and he went in search of his friend.

OUTSIDE THE CROWN INN

Anderson was not a happy man. He hadn't been since his mistress had instructed him to drop Miss Margaret off at the nearest brothel. It was wrong. But what choice had he had. Since then he had attempted to blot out the memory of the young woman's distressed tears with the aid of a mug of ale. Many, many, many, mugs of ale.

As he stood on the footpath, his body swaying gently like the movement on a ship, he was sent flying by a man rushing past him.

"Sorry," the man called as he continued on his way.

Lying on the ground Anderson had the feeling he'd heard and seen that particular man before. As he tried to focus on the departing figure, the man's clothes caught his eye, and even in his inebriated state he recognised them.

The Highwayman!

Staggering to his feet he frantically searched for the scoundrel, and someone to assist him.

And then he saw the familiar figure of the Constable and rushed over to him.

"I saw him!" he exclaimed. "I saw him."

"Saw who?" Lestrade answered patiently, recognising Lady Smallwood's coachman.

"The highwayman."

"Where?" Lestrade demanded.

Anderson turned in the direction Sherlock had been heading. In the distance he caught sight of him, and he pointed. "That's him there."

Lestrade was off like a shot, reaching for his whistle as he ran.

Sherlock was only made aware that he was being pursued when he heard the whistle. He turned and swore when he saw the constable. Was everyone determined to stop him finding Molly?

He ducked and dived between the many traders that were setting up stalls all around. He felt certain that as long as he could stay ahead of Lestrade, he should be able to outrun him.

It took him longer than he'd anticipated. Lestrade had stuck to him every turn he made. Eventually he managed to dislodge his pursuer, by making a false feint to the left and going right instead.

Pausing to catch his breath he looked around him working out where exactly he had ended up.

He was just about to head off again in the hopes of increasing the distance between him and the constable, when he heard a woman scream.

Not just any woman. It was Molly.

NEAR TOWER BRIDGE

It hadn't taken Molly long to realise the error of her judgement. Unfortunately by the time she came to this conclusion she had no idea how to get back to the Inn.

So with no other option, she carried on.

After wandering aimlessly about for over an hour she found somewhere to sit and rest.

But as soon as she did, she was immediately approached by a rough looking man, who by the look on his face thought all his Christmas's had come at once.

Molly got up cautiously and attempted to leave, but the man would have none of it. He suddenly lunged, grabbing hold of her and attempting to drag her into the shadows under the bridge.

Molly fought as hard as she could, but the man was too strong, so she did the only thing she could think of.

She screamed.

No one came, at least not immediately. And then she heard a familiar voice.

"Let her go!"

Sherlock felt his blood boil when he saw the man with his hands on Molly. She was still struggling desperately, but as hard as she tried she could not pull herself free.

Drawing his sword, Sherlock approached and ordered the man to let Molly go.

The man looked initially surprised, then he gave an evil grin as he too drew a sword. Without warning he was barrelling towards Sherlock, clearly it was a move he used, attempting to knock his opponent over in an attempt to hide his poor sword skills.

But Sherlock knew exactly what the man intended long before he reached him, and he was able to easily sidestep him.

His surprise move thwarted the man realised his only hope now was to fight. But when it soon became apparent to that he was up against a far superior swordsman, he quickly backed off, turned and ran off.

"Oh William," Molly cried in relief.

But just as Sherlock went to embrace her, there was a crack unbelievable pain in his upper thigh. He looked down taking a moment to appreciate the fact he'd just been shot as he collapsed to the ground.

John had been doing his best to catch up with Sherlock, but he lost sight of him. He was just on the verge of giving up when he heard the sound of a pistol firing.

When he reached Sherlock it was clear he was in trouble, he was losing a lot of blood.

Molly was inconsolable, but at the moment he needed to focus on Sherlock.

"Sherlock, William Sherlock Scott Holmes" he said. "Can you hear me?" He turned to open his medical bag.

"Loud and clear Doctor Watson," came the languid reply.

John let out a sigh of relief. And then he snapped. "I warned you, but would you listen to me?"

"Calm yourself John, I'm not dead yet."

Molly came out of her stupor, only to feel even more dazed then before. The doctor had called her William, Sherlock. And Holmes? She looked from the doctor, then down at her lover, as realisation hit her. "You're Lord Holmes younger brother?"

But when Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, John interrupted him. "Now is not the time for this conversation. Later," he then turned to Molly. "Molly I need you to put pressure here," he indicated how he was pressing down firmly on Sherlock's thigh.

Molly did as instructed giving John the opportunity to grab other items he was going to need.

At that moment Constable Lestrade arrived, still pleased with himself at his lucky shot.

"Step away from that man, he is a highwayman."

"Goddamn it, Lestrade!" Sherlock grumbled, wincing in pain. "Can a gentleman not meet with a pretty girl without being shot to pieces."

The Constable looked sheepish, but he quickly recovered himself and put forward his case.

"You sir, are no gentleman," he said. "You are a highwayman. You were identified…"

"Who identified him?" John asked as he and Molly totally ignored his orders.

"Anderson, Lady Smallwood's coachman."

Sherlock snorted with contempt. "By a man who has poor eyesight at the best of times, let alone when he has a gut full of ale."

"He said he recognised your voice," Lestrade persisted.

"Of course he recognised my voice," Sherlock noted dryly. "I have been a guest at the Smallwood Estate on a number of occasions."

The more Sherlock spoke, the weaker his voice became.

Lestrade seemed uncertain where to go from here. But he sensed that the situation had slipped away from him.

Sherlock's breathing was becoming more uneven. He looked up into Molly's worried gaze. "Molly, promise me something."

Molly nodded her ascent.

"Marry me," his voice now barely a whisper.

Molly answered without giving herself time to think. "Yes Sherlock, I'll marry you."

Sherlock smiled contentedly.

John was becoming worried. Sherlock was still losing blood.

And then Sherlock's eyes closed as he slipped into oblivion and his body went limp.

"Sherlock?" the doctor said, nothing. He tried again. "Sherlock."

Molly realised something was wrong. She looked down at the man she loved. He didn't appear to be breathing. She started to cry. "Sherlock, open your eyes for me please? Sherlock."

"SHERLOCK!"

There was no response.


	7. A Life in the Country

And still on a winter's night, they say,  
When the wind is in the trees,  
When the moon is a ghostly galleon  
Tossed upon cloudy seas,  
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight  
Over the purple moor,  
A highwayman comes riding –  
Riding – riding –  
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.  
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs  
In the dark inn-yard;  
He taps with his whip on the shutters  
But all is locked and barred;  
He whistles a tune to the window,  
And who should be there  
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
Platting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

EN ROUTE TO EASTBOURNE – LATE JULY 1750

John Watson gave the horses a gentle flick of the whip as the coach made its way leisurely along the dirt road. He turned to Mary who sat next to him and they shared a smile, both relieved and happy that they were all going to be starting a new life in the country.

It was no hardship to leave the hustle and bustle of London behind them.

ERRANDS TO RUN

Mary Watson immediately made her way to her husband's surgery and set about getting things ready. John was certain Sherlock was going to get himself into trouble, as it was clear he wasn't thinking clearly. It was best therefore he had decided to get things in preparation if things came to the worst.

She next paid a visit to Mrs Hudson to advise her the Mister Holmes would no longer be keeping the flat. She organised for his possessions to be moved as soon as need be. She then gave the widow enough money to cover until she could find another tenant.

Errands complete Mary headed back to the surgery, and waited.

DOCTOR JOHN WATSON'S SURGERY

Sherlock counted himself extremely fortunate to have a friend as skilled in medicine as Doctor John Watson.

The doctor had him taken straight to his surgery. Once he'd been able to extract the pellet fragment that was lodged in Sherlock's thigh he had finally been able to stem the excessive blood flow.

But due to the amount of blood he had already lost, Sherlock slipped into a feverish delirium.

It had been an anxious time for his friends, and Molly who refused to leave his bedside. It was only with the gentle coaxing of Mary, who advised her that Sherlock would want to see her happy and well when he eventually awoke that saw Molly slip out, but only long enough to eat something before returning and maintaining her vigil.

A vigil that was rewarded two weeks later when Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, finally clear and free of the fever.

INTERIOR COACH

Sherlock lay with his head resting on Molly's lap. He let out a contented sigh as Molly ran her fingers lovingly through his curls.

Molly looked down and again marvelled at the miracle that had been granted them, just thinking of a life without him made her shudder.

Sherlock felt it. "Are you all right love?" he queried.

Determined to banish such terrible thoughts from her mind, she laughed as she patted her slightly rounded stomach. "I need to stop eating Mary's excellent teacakes," she joked. "They make my tummy swell."

"It is not the teacakes that make your tummy swell my love, but our child that grows within your womb," he informed her confidently.

At her shocked gasp he misunderstood her reaction and he quickly tried to reassure her. "If you require medical verification I'm certain the good doctor will be able to confirm my diagnosis."

When Molly didn't respond, Sherlock peered up at her. She was furiously chewing on her lower lip and her eyes were brimming with tears.

"Molly?" he queried in growing concern.

"You knew didn't you?" she said. "You knew I was with child when you made me promise to marry you… That was the only reason why you…"

"No!" Sherlock exclaimed as he shot up and swung around so that his feet were planted on the floor of the carriage and pulled Molly onto his lap despite her protests. He took her face in his hands and looked deep into her worried eyes. "I mean yes I suspected that you were carrying my child that is true. But no, that wasn't my reason for making you promise. My reason for asking you to marry me was for purely selfish reasons."

"What reasons?" Molly asked, the fear in her eyes being quickly replaced by hope.

Sherlock leaned forward to press a sweet and gently kiss to her forehead before he enfolded her in his arms and cuddled her close. With all the conviction he could muster, he reverently stated. "I love you Molly Hooper. I will always love you, and I intend to spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

The raw emotion blazing from his eyes and the way his voice trembled as he spoke was all the reassurance she needed to know he spoke from the heart.

Molly looked up at him, her own love reflected in every pore of her being. "Then we'd better wed soon my love," she said.

Sherlock leant down and kissed her tenderly. "That will be my absolute pleasure," he murmured.

ONE YEAR LATER – SUSSEX DOWNS

Ever so carefully he lowered the wooden frame that contained honeycomb into the hive with as little disturbance to the industrious bees as was possible.

Stepping back Sherlock removed the netting he wore over his head. He'd dispensed with using gloves, finding them too cumbersome, knowing that as long as he was careful he was less likely to get stung.

He turned when he heard a delighted gurgle, having to shade his eyes from the unusually warm sun. He smiled when he saw Molly carrying their six-month-old son, William in her arms.

He moved towards them, his limp now barely noticeable. Initially he had to use a cane to walk about, but gradually with constant exercise his leg had become stronger. Now he only needed the cane when the weather was particularly cold.

"Come here my little bumblebee," he said reaching out to take Will in his arms. The baby gurgled again in delight, happy to be raised above his father's head before being lowered again, a gentle kiss placed upon his forehead, before he was returned to his mother's arms.

Sighing happily Sherlock bent down to kiss his wife, before reaching out to wrap his arms around her as they headed back to their simple cottage.

Will yawned sleepily. "I believe our son needs his afternoon nap," Sherlock noted, a sly grin emerged as he playfully added. "As do his mamma and papa."

Molly cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink at his suggestion. "Sherlock!" she cried trying to sound outraged.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in innocent enquiry.

Molly shook her head in amused resignation that she would never be able to resist this man. He was her husband, her highwayman and her hero.

As they approached their home, Sherlock reflected on the irony of his current situation.

He had chosen to be disinherited rather than bend to Mycroft's demands that he marry and produce heirs. He hadn't wanted to be tied down to a wife and children.

But the truth was he wouldn't have had this life at all if he'd just given in to his brother's wishes. It was because he'd been disinherited that he'd become a highwayman. As the highwayman he'd met Molly. And meeting Molly had changed him for the better.

And so here he was, living a simply and far more satisfactory life than he had in London. He had good, supportive friends. He was married to a woman he absolutely adored and could not imagine living without. They had a young son that with any luck would be only the first of many. His life now had a purpose; all in all he was left feeling wealthier than he ever had before.

In truth, he couldn't imagine his life any other way.


End file.
